


The Inner Sanctum

by Jenetica



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Gen, Introspection, M/M, pseudo-slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-20 13:52:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1512884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenetica/pseuds/Jenetica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Hannibal swirls his cognac, watching the amber rise to tumult only to slow to a still. He does it again to feel the shift of liquid inside the glass, to see droplets spark up along the sides."</p><p>A short look into Hannibal's evening-time routine. Not-quite-spoilers for 2x08.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Inner Sanctum

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure what to call this. It's not plotty enough to be a story, but it's not quite immaterial enough to be a drabble. It's what came out when I tried to write a story, but got too caught up in the decadence of it all. Hopefully you'll enjoy it.
> 
> Un-beta'd.

Hannibal swirls his cognac, watching the amber rise to tumult only to slow to a still. He does it again to feel the shift of liquid inside the glass, to see droplets spark up along the sides.  
  
It's calming to him, to sit by a fire and drink a snifter of cognac before bed. He watches the blaze of wood alight, feels the chaos of his life ignite within him, then sips his drink as the fire calms to ash and his fears calm to confidence. He goes to bed warm, relaxed, and poised, and wakes ready for the schemes and plots he'll have to deploy to maintain his decomposing façade.  
  
Hannibal isn't a fool. He knows his jig is up. One day, Will will find the wisp of evidence he needs, and Hannibal will be locked up in a ward for the rest of his life. Or, rather, as long as it takes for him to escape. He has no intention of rotting away in cell, but that plan is best saved for a rainy day in a psych ward, not here, in Hannibal's home.  
  
He knows Will will catch him eventually. What Hannibal wants is only to create a story, a romance of the ages, before he is caught. "I can't kill you now," Will said, "not when I finally find you interesting." A drawn-out suspension to the symphony that is their relationship. Will the seventh resolve to a major chord, or will the melody dissolve into further dissonance? Every song has a resolution, of course, but Hannibal thinks he can wrest a few more movements out of this one before it's done. Something in A-flat minor, perhaps. Nice and dark.  
  
The game of murder is a thrilling one. Gets the blood pumping, lets the adrenaline surge. Hannibal loves the insidious stalk of preying, from organizing his Rolodex to orchestrating the scenario that brings him close to his victim. He loves the violent rush of attack, the heady rush of neurotransmitters as he incapacitates his target, feels their life give under his hand. He loves removing their tasty bits, the slide of slick and sinew over his fingers as he carefully takes his fill from them. He never takes much, never gives them the credit of being too edible. He takes the best of them and leaves the rest, shucking the oyster and stealing the pearl. But before that (and this is his favorite part), he stitches them up or hollows them out or skewers them just so. He makes art with them.  
  
(Collaborating with the FBI is the most fulfilling risk he's ever taken. He sees the art of other killers, he learns from their methods and revels in their reflected glory, but that's a secondary fancy. The true joy comes when he makes a kill for Jack's team to find, when he gets called to consult. He walks in, sees his work spread out like a true masterpiece, and watches as the rest of them see it, too. No matter how much vitriol they spew, how much disgust they impart, Jack's team of scientists always take a moment to let the scene sink in, to take in the beauty of it all. And Hannibal, off to the side, clasping his hands loosely in front of his hips, basks in their reluctant awe. He wonders, always, how long it will take them to figure out which organ or muscle he took this time. Wonders how many levels of horror they'll have to tear through, first.  
  
He'd have them over for dinner if they weren't so impudent. He'd like to see how the nation's best forensics experts look while they're chewing on their case.)  
  
Hannibal loves the thrill of murder, but never before has he experienced a feeling like this. Will Graham is out of Chilton's oily grasp, triumphantly holding a clean bill of health. Before, his accusations were meaningless pleas of the guilty. "I didn't do it, _he_ did it!" How utterly pedantic, or so thought the FBI.  
  
Hannibal, of course, knew better. He always knows better.  
  
Oh, and Will put up such a pretty fight about it all, didn't he? The false tears, the underhanded meetings with Beverly Katz, the murder attempt, the retrieval of Abel Gideon. Absolutely beautiful. Hannibal loved squashing every step of it, loved the grind of Will's frustration under his heel.  
  
He's so in love with Will Graham, it's almost painful.  
  
Hannibal takes the last sip of his cognac and heads downstairs to rinse the glass. His mind is just hazy enough that the apples of his cheeks feel warm. It's almost unbearably pleasant. He walks back upstairs and takes to his en suite bathroom to get ready for bed.  
  
It's difficult, living with a man like WIll Graham breathing down his spine. Hannibal knows that now, more than ever, he has to watch his every step and word. Will may legally be sane, but he has the determination of a madman. Hannibal spits foamy toothpaste into the sink, swishes with mouthwash. There's a quiet sense of anticipation to it, knowing that the chessboard just gained a knight, shifting the tide to white instead of Hannibal's consumptive black. Hannibal feels more alive than he has in decades, since he first joined medical school and learned how to properly dissemble a body.  
  
He washes his face, runs damp hands through his hair, and retires to his bedroom. Everything is just so, down to the way the vents make the curtains billow and the light casts perfect shadows on Hannibal's spot of the bed. His inner sanctum. Hannibal slides between his cool sheets, reaches up to turn off the light.  
  
"It was my turn to provide the meat," Will said, sharp as Hannibal's favorite scalpel.  
  
The trout was delicious. But now, it's Hannibal's turn. And oh, how he shall _provide_.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [Tumblr.](jenetica.tumblr.com)


End file.
